


Not For Publication

by Kieron_ODuibhir



Series: Cirque de Triomphe [52]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: (is a lifestyle), Background Het, Dignity, Earth-3, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Heroism, Humor, Journalism, Mirror Universe, Owlman's Worst Day Ever, POV Female Character, Referenced violence, Team as Family, because Jokester is so married forever, clowns be clowning, it's all about who you know, no really this should be aimed at nine-year-olds I swear, puerile humor, superspecial underground conspiracy meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6425215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieron_ODuibhir/pseuds/Kieron_ODuibhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red Hood, with his mask off, turned out to be in his early twenties, dark-haired and good-looking in a way that fell just short of 'striking,' except when his eyes sharpened with emotion. He had given his name as 'Jason,' no surname, and she was sure he was carrying at least one concealed weapon.</p><p>Jokester, in contrast, was boisterous, gregarious, warm, and after about twenty minutes in his company it was surprisingly easy to forget that he had a face like some burgeoning special effects technician had gone to town with the sculpting putty, then coated the result liberally in white latex paint.</p><p>In all likelihood, everything they could possibly say would be off the record, but Lois couldn't help but think of this as an interview.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not For Publication

**Author's Note:**

> By 94% pure happy coincidence, I am posting this story on April Fool's Day, which is exactly where it belongs.

It had taken Luthor years to even think of inducting Lois into this 'League of the Rhine' network of his, which was annoying enough since it was evidently meant at least as much as an information-sharing enterprise as it was for the coordination of vigilante combat resources; and then at least a year more for him to actually _do_ it. She'd known he was biting his tongue on something, but not what. She thought it was pretty rich of him to keep grumbling over her lack of trust for him as wealthy businessman, when he was so distrustful of her ability as reporter to keep her mouth shut.

Pun intended.

Be that as it may, ever since she'd joined the League her every introduction to the other members had come ringed about with reminders and cautions about confidentiality and how important it was to various people's wellbeing that she not publish their private information in the _Planet._ Which was insulting, but at least helped keep temptation at bay.

She was in Gotham for the day on a completely different story, but she had several spare hours in her schedule and Alex had arranged her contact with the Gotham Circus. They'd apparently felt themselves in much less danger letting a reporter see their lair than she would put herself in by appearing with them in public, so she'd been given directions to an address at which she could 'enjoy their hospitality.'

This invitation turned out not to be false advertising. After a brief introduction on arrival to The Crocodile (Mr. Jones had, apparently, made the cheese danishes she was offered on arrival; a man of many talents) and the Strawman, who was very pleasant if a little shy, both men had departed on unspecified business and she'd been left alone with the Jokester and the Red Hood, and they'd sat down with coffees in a somewhat shabby living room in the dilapidated three-story brownstone the Circus evidently called home. (Lois had not yet found the right moment to ask whether they rented, owned, or squatted in the place.)

The two men had pointed out the most comfortable armchair for Lois and themselves each taken a cushion of the sofa facing it, sitting far enough apart that a third person could have squeezed between, but not leaning against the arms. Red Hood, with his mask off, turned out to be in his early twenties, dark-haired and good-looking in a way that fell _just_ short of 'striking,' except when his eyes sharpened with emotion. He had given his name as 'Jason,' no surname, and she was sure he was carrying at least one concealed weapon, though it was well-concealed enough she didn't know where.

Jokester, in contrast, was boisterous, gregarious, warm, and after about twenty minutes in his company it was surprisingly easy to forget that he had a face like some burgeoning special effects technician had gone to town with the sculpting putty on an abnormally wide-mouthed puppet, and then coated the result liberally in white latex paint.

In all likelihood, everything they could possibly say would be off the record, but in this position and in light of her personal levels of interest, Lois couldn't help but think of this as an interview.

A nice, relaxed one, mind you, not one of the fierce interrogations she'd been known to conduct trying to wring a particular piece of information out of an unwilling source, but an interview all the same.

In Jokester's eyes, it appeared to be story time. The Red Hood had taken a while to relax, but now that he had, he was slumped bonelessly over his half of the sofa, grinning all over his face as his mentor finished recounting an event involving aardvarks, honey, and thirteen ninjas surprised in the bath and wearing nothing but towels. It was remarkable how different this boy seemed from the reserved, judgmental youth she'd met an hour ago. Lois had finished her coffee five minutes ago, but been far too entertained by the story to do more than set the empty mug down on the dented coffee table and forget it.

"I can top that," declared the Red Hood, as soon as they were done laughing and declaring Jokester a dreadful fibber.

"You think my story is too ridiculous to even have happened, and you still think you can top it?"

"Yeah. For one thing, mine totally did happen, and you know it because you're the star."

"Oh goody," said the clown. It was hard to tell whether he intended it as irony or was totally sincere.

"Go on," prompted Lois. "I'm the only one who doesn't know this story now, loop me in."

Jason grinned. It was more than a little like a smirk. "Okay, so there's this one time, it's autumn and there's a really killer flu bug going around, and J catches it."

" _Oh_ no," interrupted Jokester, grimacing. Apparently that was all he needed to identify the tale.

Red Hood turned to him, still smirking. "What, this is a great story."

"So far this is a boring story," their guest pointed out, for which the Red Hood stretched around the coffee table to kick her gently in the ankle. He could not deny, however, that 'the story of that one time Jokester got the flu' was not particularly compelling.

The man himself stretched himself over the back of the sofa with an extended moan, his spine cracking. "Hey. Contrary to rumor, I _am_ actually capable of embarrassment, kiddo."

"This is a _great_ story," Jason reiterated, and turned back to Lois. " _So_ , J has the flu, and Harley's ordered him to go to bed and stay there. But then word comes in of this massive raid the Owl's leading on the Cauldron. The Circus has _got_ to be there—obligations, people to protect, all kinds of reasons. Only a few of them are even in town, at the time. And if J doesn't go, somebody _else_ has to keep the Owl busy while everything else goes down, and he can't have _that_ , so up he gets, and out he goes.

"He looks just the same as always, cuz, y'know, he can't get any _paler_ , and he wore a bandana so you couldn't see how much he was sweating. So there he is, sick as a dog and faking for all he's worth, lures the Owl into a trap that keeps him down for a good eighty seconds. And then just when old birdface is getting out and coming at him, he _sways_ , and Owlman's like, 'I haven't even hit you yet.'"

His imitation of the villain's intonation was uncannily accurate even with no effort to imitate his actual voice, and even in what was billed as a humorous story Lois was intrigued by this insight into Gotham battle dynamics. (Owlman's capacity for cracking very dry jokes in combat wasn't as surprising as it possibly should have been; but then, she'd spied on Syndicate meetings before, and heard the man being sarcastic at his allies' expense.)

Jokester chimed in. "And I said, 'You're not gonna, either,' which was definitely not some of my best repartee; I was sick, cut me some slack."

Red Hood rolled his eyes and took back the narrative. "So they jump around for a bit, all projectiles and split-second dodges. J gets him with the joy buzzer for a couple of seconds, but the Owl's getting smirkier and smirkier because he's realizing J's off his game, and ten minutes into the fight he's basically just kicking J around the square."

"Ooh." Lois winced in sympathy, and Jokester waved it off with a smile.

"At some point he's going to learn not to play with his food, and then we'll _really_ have problems," Jason averred. "So the only good thing was, J was definitely keeping him busy. Until suddenly the bastard realizes that's _why_ his opponent isn't making a break for it like he normally would after taking that many hits, so he knocks him down again, and takes his last weapon off him, and steps on his chest, right here." Jason gestured to the soft spot just under the base of the sternum, over the diaphragm, where one put one's hands when providing CPR.

Lois' wince this time was considerably more violent. Between an exposé she'd done on police custody deaths, and dealing with the aftermath of far too many instances of Ultraman, she knew more about traumatic asphyxia and how easy it was to inflict accidentally than she had ever wanted to.

"Don't worry," Jokester jumped in again. "He didn't keep me down long enough to turn blue. I slapped my last firecracker against his ankle and wriggled away in the distraction."

"Right," agreed the Red Hood. "J wriggles out again. The evacuation is starting to finish up, and the Owls aren't making a great showing. Owlman is getting pissed. He backs J up against a curb, then makes him have to jump back to dodge, and he kind of screws up his footing on the landing because the height changed and his reflexes were shot."

"He comes at me," Jokester narrated. "I'm windmilling my arms to stay upright, don't have a trick ready, don't have a guard up."

"And then," Red Hood says with relish, "J _spews_."

"Spews?" Lois repeated, just to make sure she had it right.

"Looses his lunch. Tosses his cookies. All over _him_." Red Hood raised his hands and then waved them down his own body to indicate a coverage zone from just above the nose down to somewhere around waist height. "It's bright green, because he'd been chugging Gatorade trying to stay hydrated, and it's just…" he pulled a face. " _Nasty._ "

"Ooh," Lois said, knowing she was pulling a face of her own. Couldn't help feeling a shred of sympathy for _anyone_ , even Owlman, getting vomited in the face. Couldn't help the hilarity pulling at the corners of her mouth, either.

Red Hood grinned, big and white. He had very straight teeth. "So Owlman, he just looks…horrified. You can't see most of his face, and what you can is covered in vomit, but this level of _revulsion_ , right? Like anyone would feel, but times twenty, because he's not the kind of person who deals with bodily fluids. I mean, the guy wouldn't even wipe up his own blood if he cut himself shaving, and suddenly this happens to him. In _public._ I think he thought he was having a horrible nightmare."

"With me laughing my head off as a soundtrack," Jokester put in. "I wasn't really feeling up to much else by that point."

"And then somebody's camera shutter clicked," Red Hood said, "and Owlman went _ballistic_. Whoever it was got away, though the picture's never surfaced, but by the time Owlman got back, the raid was scattered and all the targets had rabbited."

"And thus the day was saved by projectile vomiting. And Harley handcuffed me to the bed for three days."

Lois repressed a slightly off-color joke about handcuffs and beds. Red Hood was a bad influence. "Did that keep you there?" she asked instead, dryly. He was fairly widely famed as an escape artist.

"Well, no. But I didn't want to tick off the missus any worse, so I didn't pick them that often, either."

Jason sniggered.

"So where were you in all this?" Lois asked him, curious because the blow-by-blow was detailed enough he'd probably been an eye witness, but he hadn't mentioned what had kept him out of the fight when Jokester was so overmatched, so whatever it was had to have been fairly challenging, and yet still allowed him to spare some attention for Jokester's battle.

The easy grin ran off the Red Hood's face like water. He looked aside. Picked at the unraveling end of his sleeve.

"I. Well, I was Talon then, so I was dislocating Enigma's shoulder for part of it."

Lois's hand rose up to cover her mouth, as though she could call back the question asked in ignorance—not that she _would_ , if it meant not gaining this piece of the puzzle. It had won her a bit of truth, and truth was the only true form of beauty, but that didn't mean she liked upsetting her sources, especially ones she liked.

"You might as well know," Jason shrugged. "Luthor already does. He helped check me over, make sure I didn't have a killswitch or anything."

Lois let out a tiny huff. "Normally I'd call him a rat for keeping secrets from me, but this one wasn't his to tell."

The young vigilante shrugged, looking at his boots. "We don't spread it around—I hurt a lot of people, back then; it's not good for our group rep—but it's not really a secret."

"Well, I'm hardly going to print this," Lois assured him, and some relief spread over the young man. She narrowed her eyes at him. "It was you," she realized aloud. "Six years ago, when the word underground went from suspecting Wayne to being _certain_ it was him—that was when you changed sides." He'd been Talon. He'd been close enough to the man to _know._ "You could testify," she said.

He shook his head. "I wouldn't be enough on my own. He'd have to be pinned with good physical evidence."

"And we won't give Jaybird up unless it's a pretty sure thing," Jokester threw in. Lois glanced at him to find his attention fixed disconcertingly on her.

He'd slipped into the background with surprising ease, especially for a chronic attention hound like himself. A stage technique, maybe, for an actor left on stage but outside the active part of the scene, blending in with the set. It wasn't that she'd forgotten in the least that he was there, but until he'd stepped back in with that uncompromising thrust to his long chin and flash of wild challenge in his eye that reminded her that no one, even Luthor, considered this man to be strictly sane, she'd been able to ignore him.

"It's more than that," she told him frankly. Putting the Red Hood on a witness stand _was_ putting him in much better-aimed crosshairs than he no doubt lived under anyway, and she could admit that throwing someone in his position—especially six years ago, god, he'd have been just a kid—on the mercy of the media at large was like throwing them to lions. But a great deal of the dynamic of Gotham had fallen into place for her, now that she knew the Red Hood had once been Talon. So long as he did nothing with his information, it was potential blackmail.

The Circus couldn't afford to initiate a legal process they didn't expect to win, but Wayne also couldn't afford formal accusations about his double life to go on record. He relied more on plausible deniability than real _secrecy_ , these days, but every layer of deniability was important.

They controlled him. Just slightly, and the balance had to be so, _so_ delicate, but the existence of Jason Todd was one of the threads holding the Owl in check.

She guessed that was justification enough for silence.

"If I can guarantee you a serious hearing," she said, because _this_ was her specialty, where she'd cut her investigative eyeteeth. Corruption, distortion, hidden millionaire agendas, buried crimes. "Will you consider testifying? We could take him down. The kinds of things he's done, if we do it right, we could _destroy_ him."

Judging by the look on the young man's face, he had trouble even imagining a world in which Bruce Wayne was not a preeminent threat. But the Jokester's eyes held something lean and hungry, and as he laughed out loud it sounded a little too much like a hyena's bark for comfort.

Red Hood shot him an uncertain look, then back at Lois. "You don't seem like the type to make guarantees you can't back up," he said. "So…yeah. Just…he owns most of the cops and over half the judges, okay? In Gotham. He owns a lot of people outside, too. Be careful."

And if Lois had held any doubts about the basic human decency of someone who'd spent his childhood a leashed killer, they melted away at the genuineness of that awkward worry. He might have a hard time grasping the possibility of a world without Owlman, but surely nobody was better qualified to assess the risk of assassination she would face, if she investigated too rashly.

Lois nodded. Red Hood smiled, and Jokester chortled, the dangerous predator sunk back under his usual ebullient good will. "I promise." She paused a moment, as something occurred to her, and smiled back. "Hey," she asked. "Is it okay if I publish the vomit story?"


End file.
